He gazed for a moment more, and then exclaimed, "On my life! they are flying--flying right into the centre of the main battle, to carry the infection of their fear with them!"
As he spoke, two or three horsemen, in mad haste, galloped up the hill directly toward them, and Martin Grille sprang to the side of the horses, unfastened one of them, and put his foot in the stirrup.
"Fool! they will not hurt thee," said the monk "'Tis their own lives they seek to save;" and, stretching out his arms across the path by which the men-at-arms were coming, he exclaimed, fiercely, "Cowards--cowards! back to the battle for very shame!"
But they galloped on past him, one with an arrow through his shoulder, and one with the crest of his casque completely shorn off. The third struck a blow with a mace at the monk as he passed, but it narrowly missed him; and on he too rode, with a bitter curse upon his lips.
By this time it was no longer doubtful which way the strife would go between the advance-guard of the French and that of the English army. The former was all in disarray, and parties scattering away from it every instant, while the latter was advancing steadily, supported by a large body of pikes and bill-men, who now appeared in steady order from behind some of the tall trees of the wood. Just then, through the bushes which lay scattered over the bottom of the slope, a group was seen coming up the hill, so slowly that their progress could hardly be called flight. At first neither Martin Grille nor the monk could clearly perceive what they were doing, for the branches, covered with thin, dry October leaves, partly intercepted the view. Soon, however, they emerged upon more open ground, and three or four men on foot appeared, closely surrounding a caparisoned horse, which one of them led by the bridle, while another, walking by the stirrup, seemed to have his arm around the waist of the rider. An instant after, a mounted man in a gray gown appeared from among the bushes, paused by the side of the little party, and was seen pointing upward toward the hill.
"Brother Albert and a wounded knight," said the monk, taking a step or two forward.
"Good Lord! I hope it is not my young master," cried Martin Grille, clasping his hands together. "Oh, if he would but stay at home and keep quiet! I am sure his mother would bless the day."
The monk hardly listened to him, for he was gazing with an eager and anxious look upon the group below; then, suddenly turning to the varlet, he asked, in a sharp, quick tone, "Has thy young lord any children?"
"None of his own," answered Martin Grille; "but one whom he has adopted--a fairy little creature, as beautiful as a sunbeam, whom they call Agnes. He could not love her better were she his own."
"God will bless him yet," said the monk; and then added, sharply, "Why stand you here? It is your lord; go down and help." And he himself hurried down the slope to meet the advancing party.